


The God Model

by TheMoonGuardian (moonchampion)



Category: Fight Club - All Media Types
Genre: A story in which Tyler is real, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fight Club - Freeform, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Canon, Rough Sex, Slash, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonchampion/pseuds/TheMoonGuardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events in the novel, The Narrator is pulled back to the Underground. Unbeknownst to him, Tyler isn't one person, but a shared identity. The Narrator decides that what he brought into  this world must be brought out of it by him, before he is destroyed from the inside. After all, rule five of Project Mayham: You have to trust Tyler Durden. But which one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The God Model

Today I am being released from the Robert Ross Institution of Mental Health. The nurses gave me a metal box to put my belongings in. It is padded around the edges, similar to the walls in my room, all of my art supplies, my silverware, and my shower. I am currently held in Level 3 of the mental facility. I believe that Level 3 was a wise choice, considering recent events. Today was exactly one month to the day I shot myself in the head. I peered into the mirror in front of me. I wore clothes that were not my own. All of the clothes I owned back home were either bloody, or his. I touched my face. 5 o'clock shadow had sharpened my face. The bags under my eyes were smoother. Stitches peeked out from behind my neck, to my jaw. The drugs craddled me to sleep for the last two weeks.

The first pill didn't solve my insomnia. In fact, if I willed myself not to sleep, miligrams upon miligrams of Trazodone wouldn't do a damn thing. They tried other brands, and natural remedies. Ambiem. Lunesta. St. John's Wort. Simple melatonin. Then, the injections. Complications to my medicine be damned, it seemed.

"If we stabilise your sleep, we can stabilise the rest of your life." They told me. I doubted it. Even in the hospital, the 'sirs' followed me at random. Faces I never remember meeting, ready to bow their heads or slit their throats at my whim. Glowing eyes. Adoration. I used to bask in it beside him, even if my pride was wrong. I tell my court-appointed therapist this, who hmm's me. 

"Do you feel safer among women, Jack? Is that why you had to control the Mayham? To control men?"  
Jane suggested, boldly.

"I... don't think so. Tyler said that our fathers were our own model for God." My model was Agnostic. My dad existed in one way or another, I was sure of this. But if he was present in my life, would he have been a proper father? Would he come home everyday and kiss my mom on the cheek? Would he kiss mine, until I grow whiskers on my chin? Then, would he say: "My boy is a man!" Would he have sat me down on the counter, and teach me to use knives and shaving cream? 

"Tyler said this? What else did he say?" Jane carefully worded. Whenever Jane said Tyler's name, she said it in a faux-tone sort of way. Tyler was once a figment of my imagination, but she played along whenever I referred to him in actual terms. I used to snap at her in irritation, whenever she made him seem real in the the way I did. Now, I accepted Tyler as a phase in my life that was closed and over.

At least, that was what I was trying to project by keeping calm. The court would hear every word. "That if you never know your father, that if he bails out or dies or is never home, what do we believe about God?" I answered her ambiguously, yesterday. The front I gave my therapist was probably detrimental to my progress, I admit to this.

"Do you think God would be pleased that you are hurting people?" Jane asked. She was younger than me, and prettier than Marla, but her stares reminded me of my late mother's gaze. I sometimes wondered if she crossed and uncrossed her legs during sessions on purpose. Her legs seem smoother than my hands or face will ever be again, but I do not feel attracted to her. I averted my eyes everytime she lifted her leg.

"Tyler said that it was better to be bad and get God's attention, than nothing at all." I explained. But after that, the rest of my session revolved around life after the hospital. Divertion is the way of life. After I am released, I will be under house arrest and await court proceedings. Considering I destroyed millions of dollars worth of credit data(Along with other crimes the Mayham and I participated in), half of me hopes I am locked away for the rest of my life.

Also, this morning, Marla called me up on the phone for me to think about her offer. She visited me three times in the last month. Last week during her last physical visit, my 5'o clock wasn't significant yet, and I was cleaner. More fresh to face her, but I was in a lousy mood. 

I told her that I was a freak, that I deserved to die, and that she should stay away from me. "You have so much ahead of you. You were so close of being free of me. If I didn't mess up shooting myself in the head, you'd move on. Dear god, I'm sorry Marla." I whispered all of this to her. I had to be quiet. Anyone in the hospital could be listening.

"You take that back, Tyler. You take that back, you piece of shit. If you try that again, I swear to God, I'll end up here too."

"I am not him. I am not Tyler." I defended.

"OK. What name do you want then?" This was why I liked Marla.

"Jack. I like Jack." One of my many fake names. 

"You were Jack when I met you. In Prostate. I remember because you were the cutest." Marla noted.

"Marla and Jack. It doesn't sound right."

"Well, this isn't MASH. My mom was a Janet and my father was a Brad. That don't fit."

"Why do you call her mom, but your father a more formal name?" I knew the answer already. I guess I was asking because I was an asshole.

"I didn't know him that well." So the story goes. 

"I never knew mine either."

"We'd have messed up children."

"Not exactly. The best parents are those who never had much."

"Wise words from a man who's missing half his skull."

"It's there. Just healing. Apparently I went too far back. I shot the upper part of my spinal cord."

"So, your pretty little brain is fine?"

"I can't look side to side, and I don't think I'll be able to bend down without physical therapy. Also some minor brain swelling, but it's dying down."

"Tell you what. When you're discharged, I'll let you stay with me and my brother. I will allow you to come into my life again. But there's a condition."

I'm too weak to tell her no. To tell her that she doesn't deserve me, or to leave. "What is the condition?"

"Marry me." And with that, she throws her jacket on, takes out a cigarette, and holds out her favorite army lighter for when she goes outside. I stared at her retreating back like I've been hit over the face with a newspaper. I also wonder about the army lighter. She always had an army lighter, but switched between that and her cheap Bics. I wondered how she got it. Was it her brother's? What sort of man was he, without his God model?

Alternatively, I thought: 'What if it was hers? What if she was a vet, from long ago?' Marla met me at a strange time in my life. At my prime, and everything after. But who was Marla before she took Xanax past the dosage, and called whoever would listen? Who was she before she allowed cult leaders and violent men into her bed? Into her home? Before she went to the groups? Marla and I were still strangers. She knew everything about a man who never existed, and I was asleep through the parts she opened about herself for me. 

I was in the front lobby, signing papers to leave the hospital. The nurse handed me my box, after checking its contents. A tooth brush, three books, and a positive affirmation I made in arts and craft. She asked me if there's anyone I could call to pick me up. There's a police officer there too, to escort me home. Wherenever home is, at least. I thought of Marla briefly, but I told her no. 

The officer says that's not a problem, and that the government assigned public housing to homeless individuals under house arrest. I think about the warehouse, on Paper Street. I almost consider asking them to take me there, but 1) I don't own the property. I don't need trespassing added to my charges. 2) It might trigger more delusions. 

So I nodded at the man, and I allowed him to lead me to his car. Another officer opened the door, and as I slid into the back, he lowered down his face. He leaned up close to my ear. His face was scrunched like a pitbull, and his brows shape into a V. His fists shook slightly, as if he was angry. Will he tell me I am scum? Tell me I deserve to die? That I should rot, until my skin melts into the fat we---I---stole? Will he whisper into my ear and tell me the things I ache for? I am dirt. 

"A proper house awaits you, Sir. I am humbly honored to be in your presence, Sir." And with that, the man slammed the door before I could yell. I dove backward in the seat and lifted my legs. I tried kicking the glass, but metropolitan police cars are built bullet-proof for this reason. I told them I was done with Mayham. The driver drove a quarter of a mile, ignoring my pleas. I called them the names I reserved for others to call me. When I got to the part about fat melting, the driver stopped the car to give me an oddball expression. He asked me why I was freaking. I spat in his face. He pulled out a baton. He whacked my knees with the full force of his arm. I goaded him further. He smacked me with it. More abuse to my legs. Bruises my body hasn't seen since a month ago. The Sir Drone suggested to his partner to chill out, since I was obviously incapacitated mentally. 

"No, this man needs to show an officer proper respect. Get your feet down." He ordered wildly. 

I slowly retreated my legs. 

"Jesus Christ. Why would anyone host you for house arrest? Give up my computer for this? Nope." Not many people owned a computer a year before the millennium, but the numbers were rising. If used recreationally, would they be worth the cost? I gave up my sitcom-couch life the day I stepped into Paper Street. But a computer? 

"Will you monitor me often?" Instead I questioned, watching the car pick up its normal speed again. We entered the main road, and I watched my fingers on the glass vibrate. 

"Yes. Normally we check-in every day, and we have a device that gets alerted when you leave your front door. So no monkey business." 

"Will you personally visit me? You keep me in line." I pleaded. "Please, check up on me. I might run off. I'm disrespectful. I'm very bad. You could roughen me up."

"You fucking weirdo." The driver says. 

We all remained silent for the rest of the drive. After we entered the highway, my fingers shook on their own accord. The glass reflected my face back at me. Small gray hairs became apparent on my hairline. Fuck. Eventually, the man took an exit that lead to the wealthier part of town. The cop turned a couple streets, glanced at his directions, and squinted at it hard. He turned his steering wheel to lead the vehicle into a large, gated community. I felt sweat collect behind my neck. 

"Good day, we're here to deliver this man to a Derek Johnson." 

The gate opened, and we continued our journey. Within minutes, we pulled up to a house the size of a farmhouse. It seemed above Ikea in style. The Sir Drone pulled me out of the car. "The detectors are already arranged, so I'm going to deliver him to the host." The officer agreed, so the Sir Drone pulled me to the house and opened the front door with his own key. 

"Tyler returns to us." The officer announced. 

A group of ten sat around the living room, but immediately stood up at the sight of their leader. Among them, only Angel Face was familiar. His actual face, once colorful and rosy, was dull at a distance. His striking blond was dyed over with a light brown. I refrained from smiling outright. Then, like whiplash, I found my pride sickening. Controlling an entire group of people to the point that you decide if they live or die? Or even control how they percieve and express themselves? With great power comes great responsibility.

So I stare them all down, and consider my options. 

1\. Take over and change the direction of Fight Club, and thus, Project Mayham.  
2\. Humor them for a while, and then run as far as I can.  
3\. ?????

My lips formed into a thin frown, and I made a beeline to the regal arm chair in the middle. I sat my ass down, and they all stared at me. I was thirty, but the gray hairs on my head seemed more apparent when I couldn't see them. I cleared my throat, leaned back as far as I could go, and said: "I need a beer."

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Fight Club for the first time last night. An idea took off with me, and started this fanfic. I don't want to spoil too much, but yes, this fanfic is slash. It will be a slow build, but not too long of a wait. I promise. Ratings may be subject to change.


End file.
